The wind caressed the flower, swaying its petals, and danced with it.
It whispered the tale of mountains, valleys, and plains, making the flower smell sweeter and shine brighter .

But suddenly one day, it struck the flower harder and caused it to wither off.
A beautiful story laid with harmony, but ended with agony.

The wind can cause the flower to flutter or fall off; it chose the latter, why?
Again, the wind blew a thousand times, but there was no flower to flutter or fall off.

This void sounded louder than any bulbul's song.
Has it stopped the wind from blowing?
Is the flower not worthy to exist?

The cold has a memory —
it lingers in the corners of empty rooms,
settles into the spaces you once filled.

No matter how many layers I wear,
it finds a way to my skin,
a whisper of what used to be warmth.

The windows rattle,
the floor sighs under footsteps that aren’t yours,
and I tell myself it’s just the season.

But the truth is,
it’s not the winter that chills me —
it’s the memory of you.